


Via Flaminia

by Morgan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:49:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a time for slow seduction and a time for knocking each other around just to work out some of the tension, and this falls somewhere in the middle of those two extremes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At Home in the Moment

Sam is standing with his back to the door, like he has to really think about what to do next.

Dean's just waiting for him.

It feels like it's down to hours, minutes, seconds and still every time they get caught up like this, like there is a sudden shift in perception, like time just stopped and they stepped off the planet, the clock, something, Dean gets this chill down his spine like the other shoe is about to drop. Hard.

Sam throws his jacket on a chair, but he stays by the door, leans against it. Keeps his head is tilted down just enough that his hair is falling half-way into his eyes, gaze intent and focused. He looks good. Not too drawn or worn. Sam has this slouch-thing going on that spells predator as easily as the forward tilt of a leopard's ears, but he's not about to move yet, Dean knows.

Sometimes they don't bother with the pretense, the banter, the game. Sometimes Sam just stops in his tracks like this and looks at Dean and Dean knows what that is, what it means. Sam likes looking. He likes it even better when Dean's looking right back. And Dean's never been exactly shy. Sam isn't smiling, but Dean does and he knows how it comes off, small, sly, just as predatory as Sam's focused gaze. This could be a game, but it's not.

Dean chucks his leather, toes out of his boots and kicks them to the side. It's going to be one of those nights, he can feel it. He keeps his distance and makes sure to keep a clear line of sight when he starts in on the buttons of his shirt, strips that off efficiently.

He remembers being seventeen and thinking he had fallen in love, thinking maybe he wanted to. Pretty cheerleader, pretty girl at the checkout counter, pretty waitress at the diner. Dean thinks he was a fool back then, but the ache in his chest, the hollow pang near his heart, didn't make sense any other way. So young and so tangled up already, not big on introspection and learning his lines from whatever crappy movie was showing on late-night TV.

Sam's always been smarter than him, that's hardly a secret, so Sam's probably had this thing figured out for longer, but that's okay, that's fine. Sam's made all the logical connects, but Dean spent that time out there getting practical experience. That makes things about equal between them, because if Dean puts in five minutes on his knees he can have Sam shaking and so junky-blind for it that he'll fall into begging under his breath in ways that Dean thinks he is completely unaware of. It's … pretty, is what it is, the way Sam falls apart for him.

Sam carries himself with the unconscious grace of someone who makes good use of their body. The lanky kid Dean saw leaving for college came back to him more of a rangy young wolf and he's fulfilling all the promise of his shoulders and hands now, day by day. Sam fits by Dean's side, belongs there like no one else ever has. The funny thing is, it's always been that way, even when Sam was just ten, already fierce at that age, already good enough to know how to hit any of the major arteries with the butterfly knife Dean had bought for him. Dean's little brother, the guy currently looking at him like he's about two breaths away from doing something interesting.

Dean's down to his jeans and tee and Sam hasn't done more than take off his jacket.   
Dean can work with that.

There is a time for slow seduction and a time for knocking each other around just to work out some of the tension, and this falls somewhere in the middle of those two extremes.

-We gonna dance all night, or... Dean asks and stays where he is, knee pressed to the side of bed, bracing for it.

Sam's answering smile is fast and fleeting. He tips his head back, rests it against the door and slowly raises his hands to his belt, competent fingers falling over the buckle. He leaves them there, runs a light touch over the metal like a question and Dean meets his gaze, trails his eyes down, knowing Sam likes it, likes being looked at when it’s just them. Sam doesn't always like being looked at, that's for sure. Hides his eyes, hunches his shoulders, stands a step behind Dean, using him as a shield, and that's something they've been doing since they were children, because Dean's the one who takes the first hit. It's the way it should be. Now, though, now Sam's opening the buckle, letting the leather slip through, starts popping buttons.

Dean watches. That's his job here, that's what he's supposed to do and it's not like it's a hardship.

Could look for all the world like Sam's a sure thing, but that's not the way it is. That's not the way they are. Sam's attention is fixed on Dean, gaze flickering over his chest, all the way down to his feet and back up again, dragging slow while he undoes his fly and folds the jeans apart, thumbs hooked on the inside and his fingers grasping the peeled apart fabric loosely.

Sam with his head tipped back, eyes shadowed and haunting, shoulders braced against the wood behind him, hips cocked out slightly and just holding on to his jeans, is putting himself on display, on offer, giving Dean one of those moments when a rolling wave of heat makes its way from Dean's hairline to his toes and that feeling settles low in his gut, high in his chest and that's all Sam, that's the way little brother hits Dean, like a fucking pipe bomb. Sam is clearly waiting for Dean to make the next move, gaze locked on Dean's every reaction, just watching like he knows about explosions and the shock wave of want.

Dean's not new to this, he's had it before, he's at home in the moment of anticipation, because Sam is the one with the high capacity brain and sometimes Sam needs this to be able to switch gears, this long somehow settling moment of tension. Dean watches him, what the hell else is he going to do, really? And then he takes the few slow stalking steps to where Sam is putting himself up for grabs so nicely.

He could slam into Sam, stick his hand down Sam's pants, bite his neck. He could slip to his knees and tug at the material of Sam's boxers with his teeth, wait for those hands to frame his face. He knows the look of heated adoration that always gets him.   
Thing about all that is, Dean knows Sam and he knows there's something else going on here, so he stops a hand's breadth away and leans in a little, settles his hands on the backs of Sam's thighs and draws out one lingering caress all the way up his legs, tucking his hands in between the wall and Sam's ass and makes the grip solid and real. Sam's eyes go all the way dark at that and that is fucking beautiful, because that means Dean just did something Sam didn't expect, something he really likes.

It's there in the clench of Sam's hands and the tilt of his chin. It's there in the way his legs slide apart another fraction and most of all, it's in his eyes, that look of concentration and calculation like Sam's trying to work something out. Dean puts his mouth to the side of Sam's jaw, sets his teeth there. Sam's breath rushes out of him and his hands come up, one palm cupping the back of Dean's head, the other splayed wide right between his shoulder blades.

-You could... Sam says and his eyes slide all the way closed when Dean uses his teeth.

He knows. He knows what Sam wants. Wants the same thing himself. He cups Sam's ass and settles all his weight against Sam for a long moment while they almost-kiss, just feeling the solid strength between them, two equally well-honed weapons with slightly different purposes, not that that's mattered in a very long time.

Dean drags his hands down the back of Sam's legs when he starts a slow decent, his whole body pressing close to Sam's as he lowers himself to his knees and there's a conflict in Sam's hands, holding on and helping out and not wanting him to go and wanting Dean to go all the way down. It's pressure and intent but Dean's always been good at this, so there's the junky craving kicking up in Sam too. Sam's eyes never leave his.

Dean tugs Sam's jeans lower, gets his hand on Sam through the washed soft cotton of the incongruous grey Calvin Klein’s he's wearing. Second hand shirt, worn-to-hell jeans and expensive boxers. Sammy's always been full of contradictions. It's in the details you can ferret out who Sam really is. Sam's fingers skim Dean as he goes down, and then he combs through Dean's hair, all the things they've been up against lately written too clearly in how careful his touch is. Dean's aware that they're both a little raw, both a little bruised. Sam's looking for something else tonight, something to lessen the hurt. Dean can give him that.

He slinks a hand inside Sam's boxers and takes the material with him, dragging caresses over Sam's hips, his thumbs either side Sam's proud cock. He's hard, of course he is, and if he wasn't it wouldn't matter, Dean can get him there, so fast, so right. Sam runs his fingers through Dean's hair one more time, adds scratch and that's a little beg, so nicely wrapped up that Dean lets out a long hot breath over Sam's cock and takes hold, lets the head tap against his lower lip a few times until Sam's hand is wrapped around his shoulder and Sam's legs are angled wide, his gaze locked on Dean's mouth.

Dean counts in his head: one one-thousand, two one-thousand, knows he has maybe to an eight count before Sam snaps. He's not going to take it there tonight, they don't need the whip-crack of aggression. Breathes, smoothes a slow hand down Sam's thigh, looks up and takes him in.

Sam's muscles tense and he lets out a long sigh, noise like laying down after a rough day and Dean likes that. He likes it enough to swallow Sam down so far that he can hardly breathe before gliding back up soft as silk. It's slow, it's languid and it's driving Sam all the way out of his head already judging from the trapped moan at the back of his throat and the way his eyes are burning. Dean does just that for a while, lets his tongue play.

-Need you on the bed, Sam says, voice barely there. “Need you on the bed like you wouldn't believe. _Dean_.”

Dean pulls off and mouths a “yeah” against Sam's skin. It makes Sam shiver and twitch and curl down a little closer. Thinks about kissing. Dean likes kissing. Sam likes it more.

There's an edge to Sam's stance now, there's objective in his hands, there's some of that fierceness that Dean loves, and he does, he loves all the things about Sam that makes him uncompromising, make him Dean's. Dean's little brother, Dean's to care for, to figure out, like an endless riddle, Dean's to watch over, to shelter. It's fucked up, but they are what they are, it goes both ways and it runs so fucking deep.

Dean keeps a hand on Sam's cock as he rises to his feet, rubbing up against him, same way he went down and Sam curses soft under his breath for that, head dipping down as far as his neck will allow to kiss before Dean's ascent stops, meeting him halfway.   
Kissing Sam is a pact. It's all sliding tongues and spit and stubble and malleable pliant opposite force. Heat and hands. Sam's an overachiever and a fast study and a good match for Dean in all aspects, because they know each other, sure, they know each other all the way down to the marrow and that's what makes Dean smile against Sam's lips when he mumbles “bed, bed, come on” into the kiss, pushing a little at Dean's chest with one hand while he tugs at him to keep him close with the other, one of those paradoxical things where mind and body are going in two different directions all with the same intention.

Dean takes Sam with him when he sidles back, hand still on Sam's cock, just a tease of a touch, though he's not above leading little brother around by the dick if it comes to that. Sam steps with him, easy, rangy grace and strength all in the movements, shedding his shirt and licking Dean's lips and smiling with his eyes. Fucking kid's going to be the death of Dean, Jesus.

They go down in a slow tumble, Dean's knee and Sam's elbow breaking the fall, making it oddly elegant. Sam flat on his back, legs already spread, fucking sneakers still on and Dean's hand never comes all the way off his cock, keeping his grip lax and loose. No one's going to get hurt here tonight, they've got enough dings and scrapes already. Sam noses around his hairline, rubs a cheek against Dean's stubble catching and he's warm and welcoming in a way that speaks of need without desperation, though it might be deeper for it.

Sam's lean strength has a lot to recommend it. He's pale bronze in the low light, so undeniably male, so very much Dean's brother with the way his hands rest on Dean's chest now, the simple directness of his touch something Dean thinks he's been chasing with others all his life.

Things with Sam are not about the basic comforts of the flesh, it's all about what they are to each other, a right hand, the sword, the only one Dean trusts. He's never been good with strangers and that's another thing they share. Sam has played with others, but Dean knows, like he knows the night sky, that Sam has never given over all the way with anyone else. They're too much alike for that. Means it matters more when he asks for it.

Dean drags a slow caress up Sam's shaft and listens for the way his breathing changes. With an eager girl underneath him, Dean would say “let's get you out of those clothes, sweetheart”. With Sam he leans in and bites at his brother's mouth and says nothing. Sam's already shifting to get his tee off, kicking his feet, shoes going over the edges of the bed. Sam's hand comes up to cradle Dean's head and he smiles into the kiss, that devious little grin that Dean knows is for moments like these when they're skin-close and reading each other's minds through the simple shifts of muscle and bone. There are other things Dean can say, though.

-What do you want?   
Sam sinks a little lower under him, a movement Dean wants to trap and ride and enjoy.   
-Your mouth on me, Sam says sweetly somewhere in the tangle of another kiss.

Dean knows all about that. Kisses Sam's throat and neck and bites through the tee Sam hasn't gotten around to peeling out of yet, keeps scooting down and down and he's still got Sam's cock in hand, so there's that to consider. He's going to find his way around to some kind of explanation for all this some day that doesn't revolve around how fucked up they are, how perfect in their snarled up issues, but it's not going to be right now, tonight, because Dean's mouth is already watering.

Sam makes the best kind of noise when Dean's got his hips pinned to the bed and his mouth sliding slow all the way down and then back up, still teasing, wet smooth heat and nothing but good intentions all the way around. He sucks hard at the head and Sam, who is halfway to out of his tee at that point makes an unclassifiable noise, knees coming up a little, which hampers Dean's movement because his jeans are getting in the way. He sits up and helps Sam out of those too, strips off his own ratty shirt in the process and lies back down just as Sam spreads his legs nice and wide.

He intends on fucking Sam, sure, but this is what Sam asked for and this is where they go first, Dean rubbing his cheek against the inside of Sam's thigh as he slides back in closer. Sam's scent is strong and the taste of him is so familiar it scares Dean a little how much he likes this, how hooked he is on it. It wasn't ever going to be this way, it wasn't ever supposed to go this far, but then there's been a lot of things in their life that shouldn't be and still are. Sam's hands roam his upper back and shoulders when he settles back to running his lips back and forth over the slick head of Sam’s cock before sealing tight around him and sucking all the way down and working past his gag reflex to swallow. He isn’t doing it to impress, he’s doing it because it drives Sam fucking crazy and it makes him moan on a deep exhale that rumbles under Dean’s hands like thunder.

Teenage Sam had been confusing. Not just the way his mouth curled into a sneer, or the way he suddenly couldn't be in the same room with dad without the two of them trying to tear chunks out of each other like neither of them had ever heard of family or compromise or loyalty. The way Sam grew had been painful to watch, bones stretching and his skin drawing taut. There had been girls, suddenly, who simpered and preened and begged for Sam's attention and Dean had found himself stuck halfway between atta-boy and something darker, stickier. The kind of something that had Dean's blood pooling hot in his stomach when he caught sight of a hickey just under Sam's jaw and the response he gave was the only one he could give “Sammy, you sly dog”, but that wasn't the first thing that went through him like an electric shock. The base note growl in his thoughts said someone had been touching what was his, marking what was his, and Dean hadn't liked that, putting it mildly.

Sam was not far from that either, eyes going hard and angry when Dean rolled in early in the morning, loose-limbed and sated and smelling of perfume and sex. Sam did what Dean did, gave the conditioned responses, the “Jesus, you stink” and Dean make the requisite replies, obnoxious jokes and all, but the things brewing in the undertone of their exchanges never went away. It kept getting harder to ignore, and Sam was still so fucking young back then, impulsive and reckless in an oddly premeditated way, his eyes and hands and long boned limbs speaking to Dean of things he had no business listening for.

It wasn't like there was ever a hope in hell they were going to turn out normal, but neither of them would ever look at this thing dead on. It was too much and they both knew it even when they moved around each other with equal measures caution, possessiveness, jealousy and a half-heated aggression that couldn't be blamed altogether on the high summer heat. Sam was always smarter and he took himself far, far away before they ever got all the way there. Dean won't think about that in the cold light of day, because on the one hand, it's Sam and no one matters to him like Sam does, but on the other hand it's Sam, and Dean would rather cut out his own liver than hurt him.


	2. Revving the Engine

Dean's done a lot of fucked up shit in his time, and he's always been cautious even if he's not always been a good boy.

First time he tangled his fingers in some guy’s hair to get him on his knees the kid had been blond, leggy and edgy and he had so much gel in his hair it felt like bristle. They were young, him and Dean both, so there was some kind of equal footing. Dean knew how to talk someone through it, girls before then, but guys too after, and the kid hadn't really needed Dean's help. Left Dean with a whole new appreciation for trying anything once and it didn't even change things he knew about himself. It was different and that was about it. Streak of a hedonist in Dean, or maybe it's just that he took comfort where he could find it. Dad and him had a pretty solid don't ask, don't tell policy. As long as Dean was good to hunt, didn't lose track of time, didn't knock anyone up or catch anything, dad looked the other way. They didn't talk about it.

Sam was never good at keeping his mouth shut, or keeping whatever was bugging him to himself. He had stewed on it for a little too long and when he snapped he had come at Dean with a flood of underlying anger that started out as him bitching at Dean about them never being normal and wound up with him calling Dean a manwhore. Dean had clocked him one for that, not so much for the name calling as for the general principle of the thing.

Once Sam calmed the hell down and got himself under control they had actually managed a kind of conversation about the whole thing that came out pretty good. It was a more detailed, more personal version of Dean's “and it harm none, do what you will” speech, emphasizing legality, equality, caution, foreplay and condoms, above all condoms. Sam was better equipped than most to deal with an eventual sexual identity crises and Dean was as solid as a rock, even when Sam's questions started skating into too-close-for-comfort zones about what Dean preferred and what Dean liked and how it felt.

Talking about it didn't make things better, exactly, but it made Dean think about what he was doing and he set his own rules after that. Never the same guy twice, never where dad could see, never around Sam, because, Jesus, the way Sam's eyes had darkened when they talked about oral was way too fucking obvious.

They lived in a shoe box or a tin can and there was no way Dean could keep anything from Sam for any length of time anyway. It was better that he knew.

Summer of Sam's sixteenth they had been living in one of those half-empty neighborhoods built back when the town they were in still had an industry. The houses all looked the same, like a kid’s building blocks, despite the way the previous owners had tried desperately to put some kind of individual stamp on them, paints and flowerbeds and even a wagon wheel or two for decoration. Dean had the Chevy, dad had a truck. Dad was out on the road most of the time, making the long-haul trucker story about as plausible as it had ever been and Sam and Dean had been living like the goddamned Outsiders in that town, complete with a heavily cliquey school Sam had graduated from with bad grace and fucking stellar grades, because it was Sam, after all.

It was in the late afternoon sun of that place, outside in the overlong burnt grass of their stamp sized backyard that Dean had looked up from trying to clean the rust out of the mower, see if he could get it running, and watched as Sam walked towards him barefoot in scuffed jeans with a can of non-brand soda from the local supermarket in one hand to offer to Dean and the whole thing just snapped together for Dean like the world’s worst mechanical toy, like goddamned nuclear fusion. And about as dangerous too. The whole world took a stumbling step to the left.

Insight - it can be a bitch.

Dean’s had all kinds. Even back then he’d had more than was right, more than he could understand himself. Seems everywhere they went people looked at him and saw something they wanted, though Dean never really could understand why. He looked in the mirror and saw scars, saw a much needed haircut, too little food, bruises and the lack of things, strange vague things about him that were deficiencies, shortcomings. But the thing that happened that day, late afternoon sunshine giving Sam a golden cast and making him something more and different, was an insight. Dean’s never connected to anyone else the way he does with Sam and it scares him to hell and back sometimes. It’s why he let him go.

It’s why he holds on now.

It’s not that Sam is flighty, Dean doubts that Sam even thinks about it much anymore, but every once in a while there’s this look in his eyes, that same trapped and boxed-in look that he got in the months before he took his stand about college like goddamned Custer at Little Big Horn. Sammy’s too good for this life.

Sam is too good to be splayed out on a cheap bedspread under Dean’s ministrations, hands and mouth and everything else that Sam can’t ask for, though the way he is moaning does most of his begging for him. Dean likes this part, rolling Sam’s taste over his tongue and using his hands to soothe heated skin, sliding caresses over the shiver in Sam’s muscles and a palm to Sam’s chest to feel the way his breathing is rushing, the way his heart races. It’s a reassurance, the kind of thing you can’t make a lie out of. Sam wants this as much as Dean does and that’s what keeps bringing them back to this point over and over.

If it was anything else, if it was barter, a trade-off, blackmail, something with a sinister undertone, or even more callously than that, just a thing, something to take the edge off, Dean would have been the one out the door a long, long time ago. He doesn’t think Sam knows that. He doesn’t think Sam would understand.

Sam told him once that the thing that made him apply for college was that they all stopped even pretending that there was going to be any kind of normal for them. Dean had hated that back when he said it, but he had time to think about it those years Sam was gone and the kid had a point.

Growing up Dean can remember dad making promises. “Next year we’re going to have a real Christmas, boys.” And too many questions answered with “soon” and “some day” and “before you know it”. Dean must have believed all that at some point and fed his belief to Sammy. It didn’t die a sudden splattered death, it just tapered off until the lame, bland reassurances that they were close to getting their lives “back to normal” stopped coming. Sam was always smarter than Dean, they’ve both lived with that knowledge for a long time, but the thing about those reassurances was that they never really meant anything to Sam who had only ever seen the kind of normal they thought dad was talking about through the distorted lens of sitcoms and other people’s lives.

Sammy’s a trip, he’s so smart. He’s the one who will find, without fail, the death of an ideal of a life they’ve never had and put his inquisitive intelligence to work on the lie inherent until it all becomes clear. “You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back”. And Sam still walked. You can only kill that kid’s idealism once, thank god. And dad never spoke of it again.

So the Sam pushing his hips up into Dean’s hold is pared-down, harder and colder for it. He’s not that same whip-smart kid who could have it all anymore. He’s not the one that got away, the one with the shiny bright future. He’s not the one that got so far from Dean’s grasp he could have gotten out. He’s the one that moves into Dean’s hold, the one that holds on just as fiercely as Dean does, the one that knows there are no golden great rewards, no store of safe, normal, moral living outside what they do, which is what they are, which is what they excel at. Dean likes it. That’s always been his greatest failing. He wants Sam with him, any way he can have him, every way he can have him.

What Sam likes best about all this is that it’s just them now, and that’s the thing that blows Dean’s mind the most.

Not that there aren’t still girls here and there, or that there aren’t other people, friends and allies, contacts, comrades in the great crusade, other hunters. There are, for both of them. It’s the fact there is just the two of them making up this life as they go along, rolling with the punches and moving, always moving with it, the panoply of what they are to each other an insulating kind of shelter.

-Always so good at giving me what I need, Sam says suddenly, hand on Dean’s head, heavy and hot. “Come up here and fuck me.”

Dean takes one last slow suck, getting all of Sam’s taste, getting more of the sweet noise Sam makes for him and he has to rest his forehead on Sam’s hipbone for just a second, breathe there and steady himself.

It’s one of those nights where Sam rolls over for him easy while Dean gets out of his jeans. It’s one of those nights when Sam puts his hands on the headboard and spreads his legs, that eager tilt to his hips that puts him on display, presents him to Dean like he’s a goddamned sure thing, all wiry strength and scars and bruises. The way little brother is put together, muscles long and lean, broad shoulders and the bones prominent under his skin, hair a tousled sweaty mess and his breathing already shot to hell, all of it, makes it easy to move over him, slide skin on skin for a long endless moment before Dean raises himself up on his knees, plants a hand on the mattress by Sam’s shoulder and uses his other hand to start opening him up to the short mess of moans and the occasional rush of breath that Dean knows like he knows the way the engine sounds when he shifts gears doing night runs at speeds no one will ever know - and guns it. Broken noise when he hits Sam’s sweet spot like no other kind of promise, like revving the engine.

Because Dean knows his brother.

They don’t do this that often. They do everything, all the time, but not this. It’s not as easy as you’d think, taking this from Sam, even when he’s fucking asking for it, offering it up. Dean’s smart in his own way, knows there are still issues, and none of this is easy. Sam likes it, it’s not that. Sam takes it so fucking pretty it’s a sin to waste him on this fucked-beyond-belief thing because Sam could be the world to someone else, make things better and it’s not that Dean doesn’t understand what it is he has under his hands, it’s just that he can’t really make himself believe, even now, that he in any way, shape or form is good enough to deserve to have Sam. For that he’ll give what he can. Take back what he needs.

It doesn’t make either of them any better-off, as if that makes up for anything.

Dean runs his tongue down the bones of Sam’s spinal column, bump after bump. Dawdles a little in the shallow valley right above his ass. He’s got lube on his fingers and he’s smearing two in and around in slow circles until Sam’s hips start hitching back and moving on him, Sam fucking himself open.

Sam breathes out, relaxing into it, telling Dean “move, damn it, more, come on” and that’s the thing about Sam, he keeps doing this to Dean, making him feel like his heart is on fire. Sam doesn’t beg, he tells Dean what he wants and Dean just gives it to him. Tight, slick clutch of muscle and Dean wants in, so the “fucking move, come on”, that Sam spits out tersely while writhing under him is good, makes sense, makes this easier.

It’s a satisfyingly unhurried slide in with some resistance that only makes Dean’s heart beat harder, makes his hands grip tighter around muscle and bone. Sam makes an involuntary noise, a tight whine of air forced out of his lungs, a good sound, a so-good-it-hurts sound, and Dean’s not made in a way that makes him anything other than absurdly pleased at that. He knows, without a doubt, that no one else has ever made Sam make that noise. This, this particular thing, this is just the two of them. Sam’s never given this to anyone else.

Dean’s a possessive bastard. He’s tried real hard to bury that part of himself, but like this, Sam slick and willing and making that noise? He can’t help the pulse of his hips, the things it makes him want, the things he can do. Dean is good at this, good at making it what Sam wants. He’s good at reading his brother, the restless shift of his hips, the wider spread of his knees, that particular lowered curve of Sam’s back. Dean holds on to the slow, shifting rhythm for a while. He’s being let all the way in and Sam is open for him, something that never ceases to be completely fascinating. Dean can’t help but watch, looking at the way their bodies join, at the way Sam takes him, that tight furl yielding for him, the flush of exertion spreading over Sam’s skin.

The tension between them takes a moment to settle into something so heavy it’s like the air around them has real weight and density and then it ratchets up, winding tighter still until Sam does something, some kind of fine-tuning that makes it all fall down around them, all that atmospheric pressure suddenly translated into movement and Dean putting everything into fucking Sam through the mattress.

There’s more raw hard strength shared between them than Dean thinks anyone else could deal with. He’s bowing his head to it, sweat dripping off him and he’s riveted by the way Sam’s muscles play under his touch. He’s caught and mesmerized, spell-bound, lost and trapped in the moment, in the movement, in Sam’s wild breathing and his good noises, the dirty sound of skin on skin and Sam pushing back against him.

Dean wants to say stupid things, like “going to take care of you” and “I got you, Sammy” and other things that speak from the lower orders, things about possession and entitlement and ownership, because this is his, no doubt about that, but he doesn’t have to say those things, they are known things, they are real and best left unsaid. Sam will bitch at him if the slow chanted “mine, mine, _my_ Sammy” that rolls around in his thoughts starts coming out of his mouth. It’s been known to happen.

What he gets from Sam is “ah, Dean, just…” and a hand that fits in reverse to the curve of Dean’s hip and digs in, drags at him, makes him change the angle and has Sam praying like a lost soul. It’s sweaty and urgent and makes Dean grin through the pleasure tumbling through him with each desperately pitched word from Sam.

Sam shifts, arches, lowers his shoulders and pushes back hard enough that they slam together and it’s so good, clutching heat and all that desperation, Dean almost loses it right there, too rough, too fast. It’s the kind of pleasure that he wants to hold on to for as long as he can even if it always feels like he’s too close to dying.

Sam told him once, when they were both drunk and sloppy and too fucked out to even move that that’s the reason why he could never give this to anyone else. When they’re like this, it’s as if they’re brushing up against death, as if they’re taking something, getting away with something, stealing fire from the gods. Dean remembers Sam’s hand on the back of his neck when he started talking, heavy and warm, fingers carding lazily through Dean’s hair against the grain. He remembers the drifting quality of Sam’s voice, like he was saying things he didn’t want to, divulging secrets best left untold. They get like that sometimes, too close for comfort and too deep in to ever really get out again.

Simple things like grasping someone’s hips to bring them in tighter, or setting a mouth to the curve of a shoulder, are different when it’s the two of them. Dean know. He’s had others, he’s done things like this with others and it never feels the same. The body is all there, but the thing that makes this matter is not. And he’s willing to take the risk that this is where they get too lost to ever find their way back. Feels like it when Sam throws his head back and moans, makes a sound Dean should never have been wise to.

Dean’s moving slow, deep and powerful, hands roving and mouth so close to Sam’s back he can taste him already, his own panted breaths shunting off Sam’s skin. The salt of sweat, the vague hint of something metal under that, like rust and blood. Sam tightening up around him and getting more and more unpredictable, his movements falling in sync with Dean’s until there’s too much pleasure, too much anticipation still and the deepening need to just fall, throw themselves both at the fire and pray that stealing that doesn’t mean they’re both going to burn.

Valentine sweethearts say “be mine” and never know think about what that really means. Valentine was beaten with clubs and stones and when that wasn’t enough to kill him, he was beheaded. Dean thinks what he feels for his brother is like that too, you can beat on it, but it won’t stay down.

He pushes all that into the rhythm of his hips, the slide of his hands and then finally into getting Sam there, getting him to let go and fall first so Dean can catch him. Sam makes another of those good noises when Dean’s hand finds him hard and hurting for it. He slicks a grip around Sam’s cock and starts gliding his fist in time with his thrusts and Sam is so close by then that he’s gone silent. Dean’s knows what that looks like, Sam’s mouth open, as if in shock, his eyes closed tight, as if in pain.

It skates so close to those things, to darkness and pain and fear, when the pleasure is this brutal. It’s all rapture and misery when Sam hitches in a breath and goes vice tight around him, loosing it with a guttural sound that falls from his lips like the strangest kind of benediction before Dean secures a hold and fucks himself to completion with short, grinding strokes. He’s been holding on for so long it feels like he’s forgotten how to let go until Sam reaches up and grabs a hold of the back of Dean’s neck so he can keep him close. And that’s what sends Dean over, tumbling in a freefall through a rain of fire.

He falls and burns and finds himself half-dazed sprawled out over Sam, who has turned over and is cradling Dean between his legs, putting him back together one slow caress at a time, strong fingers combing through Dean’s hair and his body loose and sated under Dean’s.

Dean raises his head and searches out those too-smart, world-weary eyes, mellowed out by contentment. He seeks Sam’s lips.

It’s a slow smolder of a kiss. All those bullshit metaphors, the click of a key turning in a lock, the inevitable mechanical beauty of a slide and cock of a gun, the simple fitting of one purpose to another, Jesus, all that is such incredible nonsense and that’s the reason why Dean won’t think about this like that, that’s the reason this is outside reason.

Because this it nothing like that, and too much like it at the same time, only much, much messier.   
And more crucial.

This is what “be mine” looks like. This is what it really is. Something close to death. Something full of rapture and brutality and incongruously gentle hands moving over your skin when you least deserve it and need it most.

-You good? Dean asks.

Sam’s hands keep moving.

-Yeah. You?

Dean presses his mouth to Sam’s heartbeat, lays his head down to listen to it slowly pace itself back to normal.

-Yeah, Sammy. Yeah, I’m good.


End file.
